If It's Convenient?
by cactusnell
Summary: Sherlock doesn't want to live or die alone. Who does he want to be with him?
1. Chapter 1

Mycroft Holmes sat in what had been John Watson's chair at 221 B Baker Street and studied his younger brother while they both sipped some very good scotch, which Mycroft, of course, had provided. He finally broke the silence. "Sherlock, you are not happy." This was met with a disdainful sniff and a studiously slow sip of whiskey.

"Sherlock, while I have come to almost enjoy these weekly tete-a-tetes we have been having since John married, I must point out that the conversations of late have been less than rewarding."

"Mycroft, our social skills are hardly finely honed."

"Speak for yourself, brother mine. I exist in a world where such skills are often required, and I work hard to maintain them. You, on the other hand, are slowly allowing what meager talents you may have acquired in that area to deteriorate rapidly."

Another sniff, another sip.

"Sherlock, you are lonely," Mycroft continued, "You miss John. I have long since reconciled myself to observing my 'goldfish' from a distance as they swim in their little bowls, but you have chosen to dive into the water with them. You're all wet, dear brother, and will never be completely dry again." His next comment caused Sherlock to glance at him with surprise. "I envy you," Mycroft said more quietly than before.

"Envy?"

"You of all people, brother, must know that things are not always what they seem. Moriarty referred to the Holmes boys as 'the iceman and the virgin' . We both know that this is true in neither case. I once told you that sentiment was weakness. You choose to ignore this weakness in yourself, locking it away to be dealt with at a later date. I choose to recognize this weakness, and deal with it accordingly. I find my way highly superior. I have days, granted they are rare, when I find myself positively wallowing in sentiment.- happy memories, perhaps dreams, et cetera. But your way will continue to isolate you from everything you hold dear, even as you deny that you do hold anything dear. I am content, but I am not happy. Believe it or not, your happiness matters to me. Not to mention Mummy and Daddy."

"And your point, Mycroft?"

"I have long since reconciled myself to dying alone. At this point in my life I seem to have no other option. I have found no one willing to tolerate me as I am, and no one who inspires me to change. If you look around, brother, I think there is a good possiblilty that this does not apply to you." Saying that, Mycroft drained his glass and lifted himself from the chair. "Don't make my mistake, Sherlock. Go out and risk making your own ."

And with that pronouncement, Mycroft left the flat. Sherlock was stunned, though the expression would not register on his face. Sometimes it seemed as if his elder brother could read him like a book, and he had to admit that lately this book would seem more like a morose volume of self-pity rather than the intelligent tome of mystery/adventure he always had pictured it to be. He hated to admit it, but his vanity often led him to picture himself as some sort of superhero, saving his world with his massive intellect and preternatural deductive skills. But he did recall that the comic books of his childhood always mentioned a weakness of some sort. And superheroes had companions - they never died alone. Perhaps Mycroft was right. He needed to give the matter some thought.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock spent an uncomfortable few days contemplating his brother's unexpected remarks. He had calculated that he had better determine a response before Mycroft's next weekly visitation. As much as he hated to admit it he came to the conclusion that his sibling may have been correct. He had grown much to accustomed to the companionship of others.

Growing up a Holmes was been problematical for both brothers, but Sherlock seemed to suffer the slings and arrows of his peers much more than Mycroft. The elder brother had judged those slinging the taunts as so far inferior to himself that they had little effect on his self-esteem. Mycroft had always been very secure in his superiority. Sherlock on the other hand, already a victim of his brother's jibes, seemed to retreat further into his "mind palace", removing himself from the fray and never dealing with his feelings. He was intelligent enough to know that his arrogance and selfishness were by-products of this self-imposed isolation. But he was also clever enough to know the effect it had on those around him. He had recently come to regret that effect in certain cases, and hoped that those close to him had long since understood any hurt inflicted was not, in most cases, deliberate. And he also knew that, in the cases where it was deliberate, it was merely used to distance himself from uncomfortable situations, a purely selfish move. But since he truly did not want to die alone, as per Mycroft's prediction, it was, indeed, time to take action.

Dr. Molly Hooper had been in and out of the pathology lab at St. Bart's all afternoon while Sherlock had been busy at his microscope. It was actually Molly's microscope, as was everything in the lab, officially at least. People tended to overlook Molly at first, maybe because of her quiet assurance and gentle manner. Molly was brilliant, at the top of her profession, but she tended to move quietly and dress modestly, perhaps due to her own insecurity. But once people noticed her, she tended to stay noticed. The more one saw, the more one appreciated. She had a slender figure on a petite frame, long auburn hair, and eyes the color of melted chocolate. She hadn't needed the microscope today, at least not desperately, so she had once again acceeded to Sherlock's unspoken demands. This seemed to be the pattern of her life. She had long been in love with the detective. It was an open secret. At first colleagues had teased her, then, realizing how truly hopeless and unrequited her feelings were, the teasing had turned to sympathy, and finally, pity. The last was far worse in Molly's estimation, but she bore it with dignity and forbearance. Now, slowly, a metamorphosis had occurred in the relationship. Sherlock had told her that she did matter to him, she counted. She had, of course, originally believed that he had said those things to manipulate her once again, but it didn't really matter. She would have done anything for him. So she helped him "die", and upon his resurrection he had, at least to her, become a kindler and gentler Sherlock. There was a tacit understanding that he would never again take advantage of her feelings for him, feelings which, despite her best efforts, still lingered. They were friends.

At the end of her shift, Molly left her office to walk through the lab on her way to the exit. Sherlock was sitting on the same chair, but he face was no longer glued to the microscope. She smiled at him and said, "How did it go?"

"Undecided," was his response. "Care to get some chips?"

If Sherlock was hungry it meant he wasn't working on anything important at the moment. She enjoyed these brief periods. When Sherlock was bored he often sought out her company. They would share a meal, or watch telly while he complained about the quality of the programming, or discuss new developments in her field. John Watson had often joked that her companionship had done wonders for the conditions of Mrs. Hudson's wall at 221B Baker Street, as Sherlock seldom felt the need to emblazon them with bullet patterns anymore.

"Sure," Molly responded with a friendly smile. Despite the fact that she know her hopes were impossible, she would never miss an opportunity to spend time with the tall slender man with the beautiful curls.

They had settled comfortably into a booth at the rear of the restaurant. Molly was eating voraciously not having realized how hungry she truly was. She looked over at Sherlock and noticed that he hadn't touched a single item on his plate, but was smiling at her in a strange way.

"Would you like to eat mine, too?" he chuckled indulgently. He liked the way her hair, which had been worn in a ponytail all day, had been let loose to flow over her shoulders.

"Why aren't you eating? You never ask me out to eat with you unless you're hungry. And that usually means ravenous." She was beginning to get nervous. "What's going on, Sherlock?"

"Molly, have you ever seriously considered marriage?"

Molly dropped her fork. "You know I have, Sherlock. Bloody hell, I was engaged to Tom, wasn't I?"

"I know that, Molly, but I never took that seriously. I knew you would come to your senses. He wasn't right for you. Just a unconscious substitute."

Molly was getting uncomfortable with the direction of this conversion. Some people had remarked on Toms resemblance, at least physically, to the man sitting across from her. "Let's not go there, Sherlock," she said quietly.

Sherlock studied her for a brief moment before saying, "Would you consider marrying me?"

Incomprehension flooded over her. If this had happened before his "death" she would have been reduced to a blubbering mass of tears and happiness. But the new Molly sat there and studied him, and the question with which he had presented her. Her only logical response was "Why?"

"I would rather not die alone. We are friends, good friends, I like to think. I know that in the past you have harbored some feeling for me. While not wishing to take advantage of that feeling, and trying not to presume that it still exists to some degree, I was hoping that you would be amenable to my proposal."

"Go on," Molly spoke more steadily than she felt.

"My parents have a happy marriage. I know what one looks like. They are friends, companions, and, though it somewhat damages my delicate psyche to imagine, they are lovers. They face life together and draw sustenance from each other. Contrary to popular belief, I had a happy childhood. I was loved and I knew it. I was encouraged in all my pursuits. Perhaps I would like to recreate that atmosphere in my adulthood. I want a family. I want children. Mycroft would say I want to swim with the goldfish." Sherlock gave a small laugh at this last remark.

Molly could not believe what he was saying.

"I know that there have been remarks, especially from Mrs. Hudson, about my sexuality. I am not gay. Neither am I a virgin, although I am aware that there has been some prurient speculation in that direction." Seeing Molly's face turn a deep pink, Sherlock added, "I really thought that I should address these rumors, given the circumstances. Also, though I hesitate to point it out, your biological clock is ticking. If you plan on having a child, or children, it would be best to start as soon as possible."

"So this would be a marriage of convenience, with sex," Molly clarified.

"If it's convenient!", Sherlock smiled and Molly almost melted.

It was that damned smile that did it. "So what do we do now?"

Sherlock had a mildly surprised look on his face. This was going much more easily than he expected. "Molly, I really want you to think about this. I want you to take thirty days to think it over, as I will. Within that period we each will have the opportunity to change our minds, no questions asked. I also propose that there be no sexual relations until the wedding day. I don't want to lose your friendship, Molly, and I fear that would happen if we became intimate in anticipation of a marriage that never took place."

"So we go one pretty much as we do now, but in thirty days we get married?"

"Yes."

"Will there be at least some snogging involved?"

"Definitely!"

"Public displays of affection?"

"Minimal," he sneered.

"Can I tell our friends?"

"How else would explain this," Sherlock said as he took a velvet ring box from his pocket.

The ring, much like Sherlock, looked elegant, posh, and expensive, a beautiful sapphire with diamonds on either side.

"Very well, Mr. Holmes, I accept your proposal," Molly had trouble believing the words even as she said them.

Sherlock looked relieved, and more than a little pleased. "Thank you, Dr. Hooper," he said formally as he slipped the ring on her finger. And then, a little lower and with more feeling, "I will try to make you happy."


	3. Chapter 3

Molly and Sherlock had spent the evening of their engagement at her flat, watching reruns of the "X Files" with Sherlock ripping the science to shreds. "Really, Molly, I must once again suggest that his is not science fiction, as there is very little science involved. Just fiction!" This was an old discussion which they seemed repeat at regular intervals. Sherlock would go on endlessly, while Molly was driven to distraction by the ranting. That night, she decided to exercise her new perogative. Putting her hands on his shoulders, she moved in close for her first kiss as his fiancee. She was not going to settle for his customery peck on the cheek, or worse yet, forehead. He raised no objections, and she was soon sitting on his lap, her fingers ruffling through his hair. He was returning her kiss, his arms firmly around her waist. The evening was thus passed in alternating sequences of viewing, ranting, and snogging. Sherlock took his leave, albeit reluctantly, around midnight, and Molly retired to her bedroom, still not fully comprehending the change in her circumstances.

The next day was Saturday, and Molly was awakened from her usual weekend slumber by the phone. Sherlock was calling, not texting as was his usual habit. Everything seemed to be changing.

"Good morning, Sherlock!"

"Molly," he said without preamble, "are you ready to meet my parents? They want to see us for dinner tomorrow."

"Oh my god, you've told them!"

"Of course I've told them. They're my parents."

Molly could merely make strangled gurgles into the receiver. She had only ever seen Sherlock's parents once in passing. She had no idea how they would take to the idea of their younger son marrying. She knew his mother was a brilliant mathematician, and his father had been involved in biological research. She also knew they had retired to travel extensively, and, from listening to Sherlock's complaints, that they loved musical theater and line dancing. Even over the phone line Sherlock could deduce her unease.

"Molly, there is no need to worry. If you can deal with me, you can certainly deal with them. We are not all alike, and they will certainly approve of you. Mycroft is sending a car. We'll pick you up at one o'clock."

"Mycroft!" Molly almost choked. "Will he be there?"

"I imagine so. He is, after all my brother. "

"What should I wear? What should I say?"

"Be yourself. They will all love you. Besides, they're all clever enough to see through any facade. Be honest. Be brave – and calm down!" And the call ended with no sweet goodbye, but a simple, "See you tomorrow."

The next day at precisely one o'clock Sherlock knocked at her door. When she opened up he reached down to kiss her, then pulled back to assess her look. "Very presentable," he intoned. High praise indeed from Sherlock Holmes.

They sat quietly in the car which Mycroft had provided. Mary Watson had told her about the lovely cottage where she had spent the previous Christmas with her husband and the Holmes family, but she was still surprised as it came into view. It was not small, but it wasn't overly large, either. It looked perfect. The garden was perfect, the thatched roof was perfect, the quaint windows and door were perfect. She glanced over at Sherlock, at his his beautifully cut suit, his cheekbones, his eyes, and his glorious hair. He, too, was perfect. She herself had never felt more imperfect in her life. If there ever was a wedding, he would far outshine his bride. Unfortunately that would be her!

His family was waiting outside as the car pulled up. Mycroft reached to open the door, and helped her gallantly from the rear seat. He actually smiled a bit. But Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were warmth itself.

"We've heard so much about you, my dear." Violet Holmes exclaimed to Molly's surprise. She was even more surprised when the woman hugged her. The senior Mr. Holmes then took her hand in both of his and told her how lovely she was, surpassing even Sherlock's ample praise. Sherlock looked slightly embarrassed, and Mycroft seemed to almost smirk at his discomfort.

Molly could definitely see what Sherlock meant about his parents. They were definitely a couple. Their warmth seemed to spread and envelope all around them. They smiled and joked and made pleasant conversation. They doted on their two sons, and their "boys", despite protestations to the contrary, seemed to enjoy it immensely. Molly had no close family, and found herself being drawn into the family dynamic. She felt coddled, and comforted, and cared for. When Sherlock and Mycroft excused themselves, probably to sneak a smoke in the garden, Mrs. Holmes took the opportunity to speak to her.

"I believe you love him very much". It was not question, but a statement. "Please be patient with him. He's a much better man than he thinks he is." She looked very deeply into Molly's eyes,and after a moment spoke again. "You'll do nicely, my dear."

The ride back to the city passed quietly, with Molly dozing on Sherlock's shoulders.


	4. Chapter 4

It was Tuesday afternoon when Sherlock made his way to St. Bart's. He greeted Molly with a kiss. She wondered if she would ever get used to this He moved in for another more lingering one, and when they had finished Molly remarked, "Isn't that a violation of your rule on public displays of affection?"

"This may be a public place, but I don't see anyone else here, so your point is moot."

"Have you told anyone besides your family yet?" Molly asked tentatively.

"No."

"Why not? Are you having second thoughts?"

"Not at all. I just didn't think anyone would believe me," Sherlock laughed offhandedly. "I believe I am not generally regarded as marriage material."

Despite his stunning looks and his dashing reputation this was true. Sherlock's offputting personality did little to enhance his desireability. Woman loved him at a distance, but once subjected to his icy glance and cold manner they went running back to the satisfying warmth of a more attainable male. Only Molly seemed to have enough warmth of her own to tolerate his chill.

"I assume you haven't told anyone either, " he continued, "since I have not heard from an incredulous John Watson. Are you having second thoughts?"

"Second, third, fourth, fifth, and sixth. But all my thoughts lead to the same conclusion. You're stuck with me."

"Well, then, I guess you're stuck with me as well. We're going to have to tell people eventually. May I suggest allowing Mary a glimpse at your ring. I'm sure the subject will come up then!"

"As a matter of fact, I'm having dinner with John and Mary tonight. Claire has a new tooth and Mary wants to show it off! The subject will be unavoidable."

"Why wasn't I invited?"

"You always drop in unexpectedly. Maybe they assumed you didn't need an invitation."

"They assumed correctly!" And with that Sherlock was gone.

Molly decided to go to John and Mary's house directly from work. She liked spending time with the adorable little girl with the blond curls. Besides, she was eager to get the ordeal over with. She wasn't sure how the Watsons would take her news. They certainly knew how she had felt about Sherlock for all these years, but the subject hadn't been broached for ages. They were happy in their relationship and hated to think of her as unhappy in her non-relationship. They had encouraged her to move on, believing that she would never be content until she did.

It only took a few moments of watching Molly bounce Claire on her knee for Mary to notice the exquisite ring on her hand.

"Molly, what the bloody hell is that?' Mary exclaimed, pointing.

"Do you like it?"

"You've been holding out. Unless it doesn't mean what I think it means. It does, doesn't it? I mean, third finger, left hand. Right?"

"Right."

"So spill. No wait! I can't let my husband and that insufferable Sherlock be the only detectives in this group. Let me try and guess! Or deduce. Oh bloody hell this isn't going to work. I can't for the life of me remember you telling me you had dated anyone recently. You went to lunch with the adorable blond from accounting, when three or four weeks ago?"

"His name was Joe, and it's not him."

"Please tell me this does not mean that Tom has returned!"

"Please, Mary, get real!"

"Martin Lowell, the proctologist, always had a thing for you."

"Really. I never new that. And no, not him either."

"Anderson?" Mary asked with trepidation.

At the mention of the smarmy, obnoxious, sexist detective from Scotland Yard, Molly looked around for something to throw.

"Sorry! Sorry!"

They were interrupted by a deep baritone coming from the doorway, "Have you told her yet?"

Molly shrugged.

"Haven't you noticed her ring?", this was adressed to Mary, and possibly John, although he was more engrossed looking at his laughing daughter.

"Ring? What ring?" came absently from John as he snatched the child from Molly's lap. "Oh, it's lovely. " John suddenly seemed to understand its significance. "Really, Molly? Who? When?"

Mary saw the smug look on Sherlock's face, and remarked, "Of course the great detective would know all about it! He would have been the first to notice it while working in the lab. You could have mentioned it Sherlock."

"I thought it only right that Molly should be the one to tell you. But truth be told, I noticed it long before I saw it in the lab. I first noticed it when I slipped it on her finger."

The only sound in the room was Clair's laughter.

Sherlock returned to 221B Baker Street later that evening. He had left Molly at the Watsons' flat, with John promising to see her safely into a taxi. Mary had started to plan a small wedding, and they details bored him. He was not going to get sucked into the trap of folding serviettes into oragami creations as he had in preparation for John and Mary's wedding. Mrs. Hudson came out of her rooms as he started to climb the stairs.

"Sherlock, dear, I haven't heard the violin lately. Are you feeling alright?"

"Fine, Mrs. Hudson. By the way, I will be joined by a new rommate in approximately four weeks. "

Mrs. Hudson was surprised, but took the news in stride, as she did with everything Sherlock Holmes told her. "Shall I give John's old room the onceover, then?"

"That won't be necessary. They'll be sharing my room. I'm getting married."

"Do I know the gentleman in question, Sherlock?"

"Of course you do. She is Dr. Molly Hooper, and you really must refrain in the future from calling her a gentleman!", he winked and smiled down the stairs at his landlady.

Mrs. Hudson smiled confusedly at her tenant's back as he continued up the stairs, then retreated into her rooms in search of that bottle of gin.

The following day Sherlock met Lestrade at Scotland Yard regarding a consultation.

"Graham, I suppose I should tell you I'm getting married."

"It's Greg. Molly Hooper, I suppose."

"How would you know that?"

"I'm a detective, remember. One of Scotland Yard's finest. I observe, I see, I think, I deduce."

Sherlock looked almost stunned.

"You look is borderline insulting, Sherlock. But congratulations anyways," and with that he shook his hand.

"Thank you, Garth."

"Anyway, John told me. And it's Greg, as you well know, you son of a bitch."

.


	5. Chapter 5

A few weeks passed and the date of the wedding drew closer and closer. To everyone's surprise things were progressing smoothly, maybe a little too smoothly. There was no drama, no last minute upsets, and but there was also no excitement, no palpable sense of anticipation, almost as if it were the most natural thing in the world for Sherlock Holmes and his far less flamboyant pathologist to be tying the knot. John, especially, waited for his friend to have a last minute attack of nerves. He knew that he himself had had one, even in the face of his unbending love for Mary. But Sherlock seemed surprisingly calm. John almost began to think that this was due to his complete indifference to the upcoming event, and wondered, not for the first time, about his friend's motives, and his commitment.

Molly went happily about her day-to-day activities. She worked busily at St. Bart's during her shifts, but most of her evenings were spent with Mary, planning a small wedding. The upstairs room at Angelo's, Sherlock's favorite Italian restaurant, had been booked. It was certainly large enough for such a small wedding party. Molly had no family to speak of, and Sherlock was insisting that his guest list be kept to a minimum. In fact, Sherlock had insisted on everything being kept to a minimum. If he had had his way they simply would have gone to a registry office on the thirtieth day and gotten it over with. But he had acquiesced to Molly's request for a small reception. Molly had a number of friends she had wanted to include, as did Sherlock, although he would never admit to it. Sherlock didn't exactly do friends. But whether he admitted it or not there were people who would want to share the day him.

During this time, Sherlock had been busy, or so he told her, with some work for Mycroft, and a couple of consultations for Scotland Yard. She hardly saw him, but when she did she had no sense of his withdrawal, yet at the same time neither did she feel any sense of them drawing closer. He always greeted her affectionately, snogged her with a modicum of passion, and occasionly smiled in her direction when he thought no one was looking. He hardly attempted to sweep her off her feet, but then again what was the point? He already had her; it would be illogical to court her now. Molly knew in her mind that she was, indeed, a bride-to-be, but she still couldn't get her heart to believe it. That was, until she bought the dress.

Molly had always dreamed of a beautiful wedding, and a beautiful dress, but she had convinced hersuit that a plain frock would be best for her simple private ceremony and the intimate reception to follow. That was until Mary took her dress shopping. After trying on a few simple dresses, shades of cream and all perfectly acceptable, Mary insisted she try on one more before she made her decision. She then presented her with one that Molly herself would have bypassed in the shop as "too much". As soon as she saw herself in the mirror she knew she was a bride. The dress was white, hugged her upper body to perfection, and flowed gently from her hips to her knees. The sweetheart neckline accentuated her breasts and showed her long delicate neck to perfection. A subtle sprinkling of crystals and pearls was spread across the bodice. Molly never believed herself beautiful, but this dress made her feel that way. It was love at first sight. Just like Sherlock, she thought. Maybe this dress was out of her league, too, just like Sherlock. Then she looked at the tears in Mary's eyes and thought, what the hell, go for it. Almost the same thoughts she had had when Sherlock made his unusual proposal.

Since neither party was interested in a traditional hen party or stag night, the night before the wedding had been set aside for two simple "get togethers". Molly, Mary, and Mrs. Hudson were going out for dinner and drinks. John had insisted, possibly in retaliation for Sherlock planning his disasterous "stag party", that he was taking Sherlock out for a few "toasts to the bride". This time he invited Greg Lestrade along, figuring if they were going to get into trouble it would be better to have the policeman in tow.

The women's dinner, lubricated by substantial amounts of wine, had indeed taken a very convivial, and even confessional tone, with Mrs. Hudson amazing and amusing them with tales of her marriage to a drug lord. They then moved on to her career as a "dancer."

"In my day, dear, we didn't have the added convenience of a pole. There were some nights I would have given anything for a bit of support. But then again, constantly spinning around the thing might make a girl a bit too dizzy, dont you think?" Molly and Mary erupted into laughter. "And with all the girls using the same pole, it can't be all that sanitary!", she huffed and took another sip of wine.

"So, what's Sherlock like?" Mary asked, hoping that the wine would loosen Molly's tongue.

Molly pretended not to understand Mary's true intent. "You know what he's like. He's Sherlock." She noticed that Mrs. Hudson was listening attentively. "He's not gay, Mrs. Hudson!"

"Neither is John!", Mary added for emphasis.

"Well, dear," she addressed Mary, "You would know. But," she now winked at Molly, "Would you know about Sherlock?"

Molly felt herself attempting to stammer out a lighthearted reply, but found herself choking on the words. She didn't want to invent a sexual history to disprove Mrs. Hudson's mistaken beliefs, but she also did not want to admit that she and Sherlock had that "no sex, thirty day out" option. She already knew that people suspected that there was something unusual about the relationship, and why wouldn't they? Everybody knew that she had been in love with him for years, and that he barely noticed her, the quiet little mouse scurrying about St. Bart's. Of course he had seemed a bit changed upon his return from the grave. But did anyone really believe that he had changed that much? They might accept the fact that he was appreciative, that he may treat her more gently, perhaps out of pity. But marry her? She had believed that Sherlock was sincere, but each new stare and whispered remark eroded her confidence.

Mrs. Hudson, noticing her discomfort, took her hand. "Please don't worry about it, dear. I was only teasing. Sherlock, even if he doesn't know it, or won't admit it, is a good and kind man. And you are wonderful woman. You deserve each other."

But a pall seems to have been cast over the evening that no amount of wine could lift.

A few miles away, three men sat together in a pub. Two were exceedingly drunk, one only tipsy. Between them, John and Greg had been attempting to put Sherlock under the table, but he had seen through their ploy, and, with some clever manipulation of glasses, had turned the tables on them.

"She's too good for you, mate", John told him, trying to be serious with his head weaving back and forth.

"Damn right," this from Greg.

"How do you do it Sherlock. You treat her like shite for years," as John spoke Sherlock winced, "And she still agrees to marry you? What are you up to?"

"She's lovely, you know," Greg muttered drowsily.

"I know," Sherlock said, seeming sincere.

John spoke now, "You never told her so, chum. You told her her breasts were too small, her lips were too thin. You belittled her boyfriends. You embarrassed and humiliated her. You made fun of her hair, you..."

"Never her hair, John. I've always been completely besotted by her hair, " Sherlock spoke quietly, but John heard him, and caught something in his voice that he hadn't expected.

John looked Sherlock shrewdly in the eye and said in a voice much more sober than it should be, "Don't screw this up, Sherlock. Don't hurt her, or I shall have to sic my wife on you. And we both know what she's capable of."

"Molly deserves to be happy, and I will do my best to see that she is." When Sherlock said this it seemed to John that he was little sad.

Molly returned to her flat just after eleven thirty. Her dinner had taken a more somber tone, and the night out had ended earlier than expected. She glanced around. After tomorrow she would be living at 221B Baker Street. She turned on the living room light and surveyed the room. She would miss the comfortable little nest she had built for herself, but it was a small sacrifice. Definitely a hot shower was in order to wash away the aches of the day and the unsettling sense of ...what? She didnt really know, but it was disturbing. Molly went into her bedroom, flicked on the lamp, and gathered up her robe and pajamas. Sensible cotton pajamas, nothing fancy. The more delicate sleepwear had been packed for her move to Baker Street. She had no idea if Sherlock would be appreciative. She glanced over at her weding dress hanging on the outside of her closet door. The small crytals caught and reflected the lamplight. She felt beautiful in that dress. Would anyone else notice? With a small shrug she headed to the bathroom.

When Molly returned to her bedroom, wet hair hanging down her back drenching her robe, the room was dark. "Damned bulb must have burnt out," she muttered as she made her way to the bedside table. She kept a spare bulb in the drawer for just such an occurrence. Molly sat on her bed and opened the drawer.

"You can just turn it on again," a familiar deep voice came from the the dark corner behind her bedroom door.

Molly's heart stopped as she started to recognize that feeling of...dread that had been building all day. "I guess I should be glad I haven't removed the tags from the dress," she said, trying to keep her tone light. "We did say thirty days, no questions asked. But did you have to wait until now?" She tried to keep her voice from breaking.

"I just want you to be happy, Molly. You can change your mind. I came here to give you one last chance to change your mind."

"Are you asking me to back out Sherlock? Is that what you want? Because I'm not going to be the one to do it. If you don't want to marry me you're going to have to say so. This is one thing I am not going to do for you."

"Molly, you don't understand. It's not that I don't care. I do care. People think I have no feelings whatsoever, but that's not true. I care deeply for my friends, but I'm afraid I can't show it. That is my weakness, nothing to do with them. I love my parents very much. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I even love my brother! I find that I regret that I have never told them...either."

Molly was taken aback by the simple use of the word "either". Was he referring to her?

"Sherlock, I don't ask for much. You know I love you, I always have. I agreed to this marriage based on your desire for companionship and family. I know we can make it work. But please be honest with me. If there's ..."

"I love you," Sherlock quietly interrupted her. "I'm just not sure I can make you happy."

"You already have."

He approached her, reaching out to touch her wet hair. She patted the bed next to her and he took a seat.

Molly smiled at him and, seeing his expression let out an almost nervous giggle. "Remember, Sherlock, we said no sex until after the wedding."

"If memory serves, the exact wording was 'until our wedding day.'"

"And your point would be?"

"It's after midnight, Molly."


	6. Chapter 6

Only a handful of people attended the actual ceremony. The bride and groom, of course (despite the fact that there had been heavy betting on one or the other not showing up), John and Mary Watson as best man and matron of honor, and Sherlock's family. Mycroft seemed to take credit for the whole affair. When the officiant announced , "You may now kiss the bride," Sherlock bent to place a chaste kiss on his petite bride's lips. After all, those in attendance had not expected more. But, surprisingly, he then smiled at his wife, winked at his best man, and pulled Molly in for a rather longer than was completely proper snog. Mummy Holmes clapped in delight, and Mycroft slapped him on the back with an accompanying "Well done, little brother!" John and Mary looked at the couple, smiling in relief that they had finally found each other.

Easily half of the people gathered at Angelo's were convinced that the wedding would never take place, and that the reception would turn into a wake. When the bride and groom made it to the restaurant, some not insignificant wads of cash were passed from one hand to another as bets were settled. Greg Lestrade was the biggest beneficiary of these proceedings. He was a detective, after all, and had sometime ago deduced that these two were made for each other, and that each of them were clever enough to know it. Even if it had taken them a helluva long time to figure it for themselves.

As they entered the room all eyes, for once, were on Molly. She was no longer overshadowed by the man next to her, but seemed to bask in her own light. Her new husband looked down at her, and smiled, and bathed in her warmth, and marvelled that this day had come to pass. He could face anything if she was there.

"Breathe, Sherlock," Molly whispered, "You only have to be sociable for a couple of hours!" And with that, she took his hand and led him into a sea of well-wishers, one of the most terrifying things he had ever faced.

"Just don't let go, Molly, Never let go!"


End file.
